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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052637">southbound blue jay</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/juyo/pseuds/juyo'>juyo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Domestic, M/M, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Pre-Relationship, Relationship Study</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:08:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,852</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/juyo/pseuds/juyo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>He did this too, back when they were younger and more in love with the world than with each other. Sixteen-something and starry-eyed, seeing the sea for the first time. Some things have not changed, while some have, but they are still the same George and Dream.</p>
</blockquote>A study of devotion through the eyes of someone who has considered giving it up.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>193</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>southbound blue jay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>welcome to my debut in the dnf tag. let's pretend that december 3rd didn't happen in the lore and george is still king because otherwise this fic won't work because i started this in mid-november and i only finished it yesterday because i write slow. i even made a playlist for this fic because it took that long to write.</p><p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ERF800eb0ACUaafMigh8G?si=gREXRrzbQI6tuOCzO0N48A">here</a> is the playlist. the songs are in no particular order, and some lyrics may contradict the story because i'm one of those people who doesn’t care about lyrics :P</p><p>content warnings: mentions of blood and death, sporadic swearing</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>The sky is gray and cloudy enough that it shows through in the deep night, and the air smells like gunpowder and blood, and George—well, George doesn’t watch it happen but recalls Dream’s insistence on its destruction, something that George has always viewed as a little unreasonable.</p><p>He’s a thoughtful man, which means he considers it not as a method of destruction but simply as a result of human greed. Maybe he could be a saint now, or God, although it’s better if he isn’t. George is a little too selfish and a little too defensive and sleeps on his stomach when he’s particularly upset. God never gets there because he is God and does not befriend people like Dream.</p><p>If George was God, he would’ve made sure Dream wouldn’t have almost died at least once today. The cool thing about Dream is that he hasn’t died yet, despite the unreasonable number of times he almost has. Case in point: there was a war today. Because George is king, he chooses to not participate. Because Dream is fucking crazy, he chooses to participate and kill some people while he’s at it and not get killed in the process.</p><p>Maybe that’s just his ability. Maybe Dream is just ridiculously good at staying alive.</p><p>At the dead of night, George hears a knock on the door and opens it to Dream, with his mask still strapped tightly to his face. There are new nicks in it, new dents close to the center of what would be his face under the mask and new lines of chipped paint.</p><p>“Hey,” he says quietly at George’s front doorstep as if he doesn’t have blood caked onto his armor. As if he doesn’t look terribly war-torn, fingers wrapped tightly around themselves like they’re trying to draw blood.</p><p>George squints at him. “Come inside,” he says, crossing his arms and shoving his hands under his armpits. “How have you not frozen to death?”</p><p>“I’m just like that.” Dream shrugs.</p><p>The night paints him in severity, the lines of his face hard-set and dim. George can almost convince himself that this part of Dream is not him at all.</p><p>“I have the fireplace going,” George says, somewhat like an offering. Maybe it is out of pity or love or both. Either way he is not ready to admit it to himself or anyone else.</p><p>“What would I do without you, George?”</p><p>“Die, probably,” George says, waving it off. “Are you staying tonight?”</p><p>Dream sighs, untying his mask and prying off his armor piece by piece, dropping them in a small pile on the floor. His shoulders break from their proud disposition when he reaches down to top off the pile with his weapons. So much of him is tired but he would never show it outside of this house.</p><p>“If you’ll let me.”</p><p>George looks at him, nonplussed, sincere. “I’ll always let you.”</p><p>“Then I’ll be happy to stay.”</p><p>George studies Dream’s face, unguarded and untouched by blood and dirt. George rarely sees him like this; he was always wearing his mask and when he was not he was uptight, features strained as if it was a second, invisible mask. There’s something about it now that makes George weak because it makes him think about another world where Dream does not throw himself into conflict. In that world they would live out their stupid and domestic lives with each other and everything would be fine and everything would be calm, finally. </p><p>Dream studies the walls of the house, the smaller details, as if he’s never been inside before. It is unspoken in this action that he memorizes all of these smaller details and files them away into a safe compartment he will frequently revisit for the sake of it.</p><p>“I’d like to be like you one day—like this—away from all the fighting. It seems very comfortable.”</p><p>“There’s always room for you here,” George offers. That is not a lie. There’s still a spare bed in his room. And empty drawers in his dresser. And extra space in the house that George has all carved out to fit a whole Dream if he just says the word.</p><p>Dream nods, eyes downcast. “I know,” he says, which is not a thing of egoism, but rather of perception.</p><p>George says nothing. He himself is tired from literally everything, having not slept in too many hours to be healthy or conceivable. Padding barefoot across the house, he retrieves a clean set of clothes from his dresser, handing it to Dream in silent understanding.</p><p>
  <em> Shower and call it a night. You know where the bathroom is; you’ve been here a few times already. You’ve gone through a lot today. Please take care of yourself. </em>
</p><p>And in response Dream tips his head the slightest bit downward. Sluggishly, he disappears down the hallway, hissing as he makes a step with too much force.</p><p>“The spare bed’s in my room,” George calls out from behind him. Dream turns and raises a tired brow, chuckling close-mouthed under his breath. George laughs. “It’s not weird if you don’t make it weird.”</p><p>Seemingly content with this answer, Dream grins as he turns back down the hallway, giving a weak salute with his fingers. “You got it, George.”</p><p>George likes the way his name sounds on Dream’s tongue. He does not say this out loud because there is already a lot of Dream occupying his words. Instead, he turns the other way to retreat into his bedroom. It is getting late.</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George’s house was built as a form of memory. This is a fact that he doesn’t tell Dream.</p><p>When he was finished building he hung pictures on the walls and shoved his weapons away into a chest in the basement and pushed two single beds into the room with the neat little window peeking out the hillside that he carved out of the stone with his own, kingly hands. Not that he is a useful king. Or a purposeful one. He supposes that still makes his hands kingly.</p><p>The thing about his kingship is that nobody gives a shit. That includes himself. This is a good thing because George can do what he wants; that’s why he can go and build a house far away and no one can get mad at him.</p><p>That is not to say that he never visits the castle, because he does. It’s just… when he was crowned he’d said he would rule from the castle, which eliminates the use for the castle because George doesn’t rule at all.</p><p>Still, he visits for himself. Maybe it feels obligatory or maybe it’s that feeling you get when you miss something that could’ve been, but he goes and notices the cobwebs and the emptiness of the throne room and gets upset thinking about how easily and quietly Dream was able to dethrone Eret.</p><p>George knows that in the end Dream didn’t do it for him and that’s good. He is good with that because he knows Dream would do everything else for him so long as he is happy. Knowing that gives him power. It is enough power to overturn all the rules and borders in the world if he was harmed. Sometimes that scares him.</p><p>But most times he remembers that it’s the same Dream whose side he’s always chosen to spend his life by since the moment they stepped into this world together. And he knows that if he’d asked earlier to be king, Dream would’ve made it happen because he can. Or George wouldn’t have to ask and Dream would’ve done it one way or another. That is how most things play out around here: Dream wants something, he pulls some strings, then he gets what he wants.</p><p>And—don’t be mistaken—Dream is not a good man, but the good thing is that Dream doesn’t need to be a good man. In this world there is no need for good and evil or life and death or any other pair of closely orbiting dualities that are not George and Dream. In this world, what else do they possibly need?</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The first time George saw the sea was with Dream. They were teenagers at the time, eager with a brilliant joy characteristic of all teenagers that made them feel like gods tearing through a new world. When they reached the beach, the sun was already setting. The water was not as blue as people claimed, but the distinction didn’t bother George because the sea smelled heady with salt like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to stay forever.</p><p>That day, Dream was unearthly. Under the setting sun he was practically on fire and when it turned night he stood facing the sky like the vast darkness belonged within the in-betweens of his silhouette. That day, they were so young, and that day, George saw Dream’s back against the sky and realized he was beautiful. He was so, so beautiful and they were only just teenagers then, none of the mottled proof of conflict on their backs, and George believed desperately that he could spend an entire life standing by Dream’s side.</p><p>Dream looked at George with an earnest expression (something that is reserved only for him nowadays, but this was a different time), smiling at the moon casting its reflection onto the sea. When Dream was a boy, he was enthralled by these things. When boy became man in the present he kept smiles like these rare, tucked away for the important occasions. Because George was George, this change had never affected him.</p><p>“Isn’t this so nice?” Dream uttered. The sea sounded as it rose along the shore like a blanket, cool against the sand. “I would stay here forever if I could.”</p><p>It had been an exaggeration, but George still considered for a brief second running away from the inland to live along the sea with Dream. It was nice imagery, sure, but Dream was too restless for that and George understood.</p><p>“Wouldn’t everyone?”</p><p>Dream laughed, head tilted back. “People always say that when they see someplace pretty. Scenery is pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things, considering just how much of a dedication ‘forever’ is.”</p><p>“What are you, a philosopher? Or a hypocrite?”</p><p>“A hypocrite, definitely. Not a philosopher. Just a person who’s talked to a few other people,” Dream said. “Sometimes you pick things up by doing that.”</p><p>George huffed. “You are a strange, strange man, Dream.”</p><p>Dream tilted his head. “Am I?” Dream asked. George could hear the grin in his voice.</p><p>“Yes! I mean, you’re getting all philosophical at this time of night. This isn’t the philosophy hour yet—it’s the do drugs and make out time of night. Either you think too much or I think too little.”</p><p>“Well, first of all, I have never done either of those things at this time of night, like ever. Second of all, <em> I </em> think you think too little, so there’s that.”</p><p>“I think that you think that I think too little because you’re ignoring the frequency of my thoughts since you’re you and you only know your own thoughts. Checkmate.”</p><p>After a few seconds’ pause, Dream laughed. “That was bad, but I’ll ignore it because I love you. You win. Happy?”</p><p>George thought that was something his heart was supposed to react to. Maybe the reason why it didn’t was because he knew the way Dream meant his ‘I love you’s, and it didn’t bother him at all because it never mattered <em> how </em> he said it, but the fact that he said it at all. George didn’t need anything else because he’d never let himself think about it.</p><p>“But there’s no accomplishment in that,” he continued. “You are the most frustrating and annoying person ever and I hate you.”</p><p>Dream shifted on the sand, turning onto his side to face George with an unrestrained laugh. “You are lying right through your teeth, George, and you know it.”</p><p>“Am not!”</p><p>“God help me,” Dream muttered. “We can’t be doing this again. You always outlast me.”</p><p>“You don’t even believe in God, you massive dickhead!” George laughed, grabbing a fistful of sand and throwing it in Dream’s direction.</p><p>“If God was real he would’ve struck me down already,” Dream declared. He did not retaliate with more sand; simply maintained his position and kept his eyes steady, searching George’s face. “I’m gonna become too strong for him to handle.”</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(It’s almost as if he predicted the future. Or it was that he was stubborn enough to create it for himself. This Dream, a boy who would later learn how to overturn the world. Just not yet. But when he does, remember this younger version of him. This Dream, an example and a hopeful and more than anything, a boy.)</p><p>
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</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The fireplace is going again when Dream arrives at George’s house. His axe is a little dull and George doesn’t ask about it. Instead, he looks Dream in the eyes after he takes off his armor—Dream smiles—George smiles back, softly.</p><p>Over the many years he still thinks back to that night at the sea, how he memorized the shape of Dream’s frame against the dotted navy sky and all of his beauty—and God, was he beautiful. It was the smug grin on his face that painted him in gold and unfed tenacity that made George want to kiss him until he could figure out a way to make the world remember Dream’s name.</p><p>George looks up from the fireplace. “There’s food on the counter if you’re hungry,” he says, pointing toward the kitchen.</p><p>Dream ignores the kitchen and settles into the seat of the couch beside George. He sighs, contented, shuffles downward until he reaches his calves to the coffee table. This is no different from when they were young. Something warm, something intimate stretches between them like jelly.</p><p>“I’m gonna stay the night again,” Dream says.</p><p>George nods. “You don’t have to tell me. I won’t ever mind.”</p><p>“Alright, then.”</p><p>Dream maneuvers himself off the couch and down the hallway. He doesn’t ask for directions anymore. He’s slept over enough times to remember where everything is, including the assortments of the kitchen drawers. He is good like this. They could be so good like this until they aren’t. Until Dream shows up at George’s doorstep all bloodied again and George remembers that he is not good and that he doesn’t need to be good to be his Dream.</p><p>But Dream returns from the hallway with his hair wet and dripping onto his t-shirt and George’s heart begins to hurt.</p><p>Wordlessly, Dream returns to his seat on the couch. His hand, resting plainly on his knee. George considers it for a moment. He ghosts his fingertips over the veins on Dream’s wrist, then to his hand. He is careful with his touch, slow and light so it can’t destroy him.</p><p>“My king,” Dream teases. His eyes are innocent. Sometimes it’s easy to forget the weapons and armor by the door.</p><p>“Hello, Dream,” George murmurs. He runs his thumb over Dream’s pinky finger. Dream’s wearing that earnest face again, the one where he looks like a version of himself that hasn’t existed for a long time.</p><p>Dream takes his hand and repeats George’s actions, eyes locked onto it the entire time. He traces George’s diverging veins on his wrist with two fingers, feeling his pulse as it beats for those who are willing to listen. It is a gentle and quiet thing, methodical in its every second for which it keeps George alive, so alive.</p><p>Dream switches back to one when he reaches the back of his hand. He grabs George’s fingers, smoothing his thumb over his knuckles, like asking for a dance.</p><p>“I’m not gonna say that I didn’t mean for it to end up like this because I did. The war, L’Manberg, I mean. I’m glad you’re here and not on the field now,” he says, unprompted. “I was always worried you were gonna die every time we went to war.”</p><p>George chuckles lightly, squeezing Dream’s fingers. “That’s a little morbid, no?”</p><p>“It’s a fair consideration.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t die without you and you know that,” replies George.</p><p>“That’s hard to control.”</p><p>“Not impossible.”</p><p>Dream moves closer in the limited space. George recalls the first time they’d done this, where Dream had fallen asleep on his lap, hair messy with cowlicks. He did this too, but back then they were younger and more in love with the world than with each other. Sixteen-something and starry-eyed, seeing the sea for the first time. Some things have not changed, while some have, but they are still the same George and Dream.</p><p>“Since when have you believed in small possibilities?”</p><p>George laughs, something worldly and incredible. “Since I watched you grow up next to me.”</p><p>“I made those odds myself,” Dream counters.</p><p>George turns to face him, a soft smile on his face. “Then I have always believed in that instead.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for making it this far!</p><p>one thing i want to say is that i am incredibly lazy so i didn't change any part of this story despite george's dethroning because it wasn't supposed to happen anyway. my mental process here was, "oh fuck, i need to change my fic plot, oh wait there's no plot anyway so i do not care," so that was it. granted, this was still a blast to write because i did not write a single word of it on my laptop. i actually wrote the entire thing on my phone because i wrote it all huddled under my duvet at 11 at night since i just could not be bothered to open my laptop at that time of night.</p><p>you can find me on twitter at <a href="https://twitter.com/gnfcat">@gnfcat</a>. see you next time!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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